The Goddess of Manhattan
by ScarlettOHaraGirl
Summary: Ariel Dalton is the proud heiress to the thriving Dalton Hotels buisiness. Will fame and fortune take her over like so many other young role models?


The Goddess of Manhattan

"There goes the Goddess of Manhattan!" That's what people on the streets of my hometown say when I walk through the crowded streets, my stiletto heels clicking and clacking on the sidewalk. My chin high in the air, my copper, stick straight hair blowing in the wind, my twinkling silver eyes (covered by huge Banana Republic sunglasses) focused straight ahead of me. No wonder they call me a goddess.

But who am I, you ask. I am Ariel Dalton, the 14 year old daughter of the owner of Dalton Hotels. Yes, I'm an heiress. However, I'm not some dumb heiress like they advertise on Disney Channel on sitcoms like _The Suite Life of Zack and Cody_. Who said that you have to be dumb to be rich? Who ever they are, I could definitely prove them wrong.

Anyway, I've lived in New York's Upper East Side my whole life, and since I was three, my father-who is rich and happens to be a genius, just saying-has owned the thriving Dalton Hotel business. And also, since I was three, I've been featured in hundreds of magazines for my beauty. Not to brag, but I'm called the Goddess of Manhattan for a reason. My stick straight hair is the color of a shiny new penny and my eyes are a shimmery silver with flecks of teal and aqua. The different colors appear rainbow in the sunlight, complimenting my flawless natural tan and rosy cheeks. I command attention with my petite build and long legs.

"Ariel, c'mere!" I hear my mom's shrill voice shout from inside my huge house. I roll my eyes and put down the newest issue of _Us Weekly_, wrapping my _The Little Mermaid_ towel around my waist. I lean over and wring out my soaked hair. "AriEL!" the voice shrieks. I groan and sweep the outdoor pool area with my rainbow eyes. Emile, one of our housekeepers, comes outside of my brick house's back door.

She sighs and says in her soft, quiet voice, "Please, Ariel, dear, Kellie is having one of her tantrums."

I comb out my elbow-length locks and follow Emile inside. She leads me through the split level main floor to the kitchen. As I walk through the doorway, I breathe in the smell of cinnamon. My mother, Kellie, is sitting on a barstool, frantically fanning her face with a magazine. She sees me, stands up, and shoves the magazine in my face. "Turn.....to.....page.....13!" she pants.

My mom happens to be a bit of drama queen. "NOW!" she insists. Okay, maybe she's a big drama queen. I open up the magazine and flip through the thin pages of _Star! _until I turn to page 13. I roll my silver eyes as I see what made my mom so angry. It was a picture of me in a Ralph Lauren navy bikini, swimming in the pool. My mouth was open, laughing, and my hair was a mess.

I looked up at my mom. "What is so bad about that picture?"

Kellie looks at me like I have four heads. "Ariel," she shakes her head, "do you see your bikini? We promised Gucci that you would wear them exclusively for one week! Not Ralph Lauren!"

"Sorry, mom." I sigh. "That was two days ago, ya know, on laundry day. The only Gucci bikini that wasn't in the wash was the really itchy gold one. I felt like wearing Ralph Lauren instead. Sorry." Kellie groans and storms out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear the click of the plasma TV turning on. A few more seconds later, I hear the syrupy voice of Wanda Diminico, a star on Kellie's favorite soap opera.

Emile starts to wipe off the kitchen countertop. "Ariel, don't forget about your photo shoot with _People _at 3:00." she reminds me.

I smack my head. "Right, I knew that. I'll go get dressed." I speed walk over to the elevator (yes, we have an elevator) and dial floor 3. The elevator slowly rises as I tap my bare toes against the cool metal floor.

The elevator dings and I step out. This may sound weird, but the entire third floor is mine. I have a living room with a fireplace, two bathrooms, music studio, bedroom, and a two room closet. The hallways are padded with hot pink faux fur carpeting, and the walls are cream with hot pink polka dots. The entire floor smells of lavender and cinnamon, my favorite smells. I pad down the hallway to my room, which is decorated with pearly black walls and floor and hot pink furniture. I collapse on my hot pink bed and pull out my glittery Rumor. "Six new messages and one missed call," I say to myself. I check the messages, which are all from my best friend Jolie Manson.


End file.
